Looking For a Scar
by MadBat27
Summary: Even the last good man in Gotham has his vices; namely, a wandering eye. But sometimes the evil in Gotham serves a purpose. Sometimes, men like Jim Gordon need to believe that. Especially when dealing with monsters like Zsasz.


"Working late, Gordon?"

Jim looked up to meet Miss Mayhew's gorgeous green eyes. He red hair flowed in ringlets down her neck and sat picturesque on her shoulders. He never could stop marvelling at how she made it fall so naturally.

"Looks like," he told the precinct receptionist. "Damned paperwork takes up more time than the case itself."

Miss Mayhew smiled, and the workload seemed a little lighter already. He really was becoming a sentimental old man. Feeling self-conscious, he busied himself with his files, shifting them back and forth for no particular reason. When he glanced up a second later, the redhead had come farther into the room, smiling affectionately.

"I brought you a coffee," she said, placing the steaming cup on the table.

"Oh, ah, thank you…"

"Melissa," she said sweetly.

Color rose in Gordon's cheeks. Almost a year working with the girl, and he'd never once thought to ask her name. Guilt had kept him from talking to her much beyond a simple hello and goodnight. Lingering eyes had been the staple of their interaction.

"Melissa," he repeated. "Thank you."

"Maybe we could get a proper cup sometime. Together, I mean. Away from the precinct?"

Gordon smiled. He began to nod, then hesitated.

Guiltily, he glanced at the picture of his wife. Brown-haired, mousey, petite. In the picture, she was smiling, her eyes large and dazzling. Smiles were a rare sight, now. Dark circles had appeared under her eyes, her hair was thinner and dull. Raising a child had taken its toll.

Gordon readily admitted his own failings in that area. Work took up too much of his time, and when he was home all he wanted to do was relax. Instead, more often than not, they argued. The baby wailed, Barbara cried, and he found himself praying for a crime to solve.

Melissa saw the confliction in his expression. Her eyes dropped to the floor and the smile dripped from her face like hot wax. She took a step back.

"I understand," she said diplomatically. "You're very busy."

Jim smiled wryly. "Another time, perhaps."

 _Another lifetime_. He fiddled absently with his wedding band, already regretting the turn of events. It wasn't right, he knew that, but he shouldn't regret doing the right thing. The decent thing. Loyalty wasn't much for a wife to ask of her husband.

"Don't work too hard," Miss Mayhew said, and slinked away on legs like dreams.

Jim sat back and ran a hand through his hair. How long had it been since he'd given his wife a compliment? Come to think of it, he hadn't even noticed how she'd worn her hair that morning. Yesterday morning, now.

He span on the chair, allowing the wheels to carry him closer to the window. Lacking arm-rests, he folded his hands behind his neck and stared at the sullen sky.

The phone on the desk rang, a high pitched sound that grated on his nerves. He knew who it'd be. He knew what she'd want. By this point, Jim could have transcribed the conversation from memory, down to the last click of the tongue, the last frustrated sigh.

Baby James was awake, and mommy was tired, and lonely and when he was going to be home, and would he be spending any time with his son today, or does it require a special occasion to come home and be with your family?

Jim let it ring.

Out the window, he could see the first hint of red spilling out into the sky. Even Batman would be calling it a night by now. Of course, Batman didn't have paperwork. Gordon sighed. He should be home, curled up asleep next to his wife or just getting up to make her breakfast.

But it wasn't Barbara on his mind.

Removing his glasses, he massaged the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. A lot of voices in Gotham were calling for a good man, pleading for someone to stand up against the corruption in the city and restore order. People need a symbol, a role model who stands for everything good. Someone who can lead by example.

To many, Jim was that man. 'The Last Good Man in Gotham', as one of the papers had put it. Jim wasn't so sure. Sometimes he wondered if he just looked good in comparison to the dirty, black-hearted crooks around him. He was a spot of grey in a pitch black ocean of darkness.

Casting his mind back, he reflected on all the awful things he'd done since arriving in Gotham. Some had been necessity, for the greater good, but that's how all bad deeds are justified. It's a slippery slope from there on out. Soon enough, you're taking bribes for information, covering for informants who went too far, lying for partners for the sake of an extra ally.

He wouldn't go that far. But there were things that had nothing to do with the bigger picture. Selfish, hurtful things. Allowing himself to be transferred back to Gotham was the first. Barbara's feelings on the matter had barely been a consideration. It was an ultimatum: come with me, or stay in Chicago. She'd given up her life to follow him here. A good man.

The memories came thick and fast in an uncomfortable flood of emotion. Flass, Essen, Batman. However they might be justified, could he really call those actions 'good'? Beside the Joker, Jim was a saint. But in the bright lights of a city like Metropolis, next to Superman, or Lex Luthor.

He replaced his spectacles and stared down into the parking lot, and there she was. Miss Mayhew walked like a model on a catwalk, her simple office clothes enhanced by perfect curves. Drab grey had never looked so good. Red hair spilled over her shoulders.

"Pretty lady," a voice hissed over Jim's shoulder.

Gordon spun on his heel to face the intruder. He hadn't even heard him come in, let alone cross the room. How could he have let his guard down so drastically? Then he remembered where he was. The precinct was supposed to be secure, perhaps the safest place in the city. Even full of crooked cops, it was meant to be a haven, where men in blue looked out for each other.

But nowhere could be safe with Victor Zsasz in the picture.

"Whatever would the wife say?"

"How did you get in here?" Jim demanded, wide-eyed with shock.

"Now, now, Jimmy. I know you're used to doing the interviews, but you're really not in any position to be asking questions."

"What do you want?" Jim persisted, refusing to show fear.

The seasoned detective backed away slowly. There was a gun in the drawer of his desk, if he could make it there in time. Age had ruined his stamina, but it'd done nothing to slow his reaction times. All he had to do was keep Zsasz talking for long enough, and hope he didn't see it coming. That last part, however, was a long shot.

 _Time to work on Plan B_.

"Just this once," Zsasz whispered. "I'll tell you."

Zsasz unbuttoned the cuffs of his plain black shirt and slowly rolled up the sleeves, revealing the tally of scars traversing his arms. With so many marks scoring the pallid flesh, there was more scar than skin. It was like a ploughed field, but none of the lines connected.

A fanatic grin spread across the psychopath's face, as he undid his top button and pulled back the shirt to show the cuts continuing to his shoulder.

"You see, I've finished my sleeve. I wanted to give you the honor of being the first on my neck."

"How about you do us all a favour and make a mark on your throat?" Jim growled. "And make it a deep one."

"Oh, but I am doing you a favour. All of you. Can't you see that?" Zasz said softly. "Life is such a hard task. A burden that weighs us down. You, of all people, must know that. With all the suffering, all the tragedies, the struggle every day. I can make that load so much lighter. I will bear it myself, as a scar."

By the sound of his voice, and the expression he made, you could be forgiven for thinking that the madman was telling a bedtime story. Perhaps, in his own twisted way he was. Happily ever after had a very different definition in Victor's book; Jim preferred the struggle.

He reached for the drawer.

In an instant, Zsasz transformed from the relaxed storyteller to a crazed maniac, ferocious and inhumanly fast. His foot slammed against the drawer, with Gordon's hand caught between. Suddenly, Zsasz had the smile of a fanatic.

"You're not fast enough, Jim-boy. Time has ravaged you, dependence on others has weakened you. You deserve a rest. I, alone, must carry on. There is work to be done. Mercy to mete out to the innocents."

As he spoke, the pressure on Gordon's hand increased, bit by bit, until the fingers came close to snapping. Jim winced. Plan B still hadn't formed fully in his head, and time was running out. Zsasz wasn't your run of the mill killer. Even Batman had been challenged by his ruthlessness. And Gordon couldn't bank on the vigilante coming to the rescue this time.

Using his left hand, Jim struck out at Victor's knee. The force was enough to remove the pressure on his hand, but not enough to do any lasting damage. The killer's immediate reaction was to slap Gordon backhanded across the face, sending him sprawling.

Gordon fell back in the black leather chair, dazed and out of breath. There were spots quickly fading in his vision. Looking up, he saw the point of Viktor's blade aiming for his heart. Taking a deep breath, he threw himself down on the floor as the knife sank into the stuffing with a muted thud. Zsasz snarled.

Thinking quickly, Gordon rolled behind the chair and kicked it with all the force he could muster. The chair rolled and slammed into the murderer's legs, causing him to stumble and slowing him down, if only for the moment.

Sensing his opportunity, Gordon half-crawled, half sprinted for the door, his heart thumping in his ears. Behind him, he heard the chair flip and crash as Zsasz growled in anger. A second later, the madman had hopped on top of the desk and leapt down into Gordon's path, barring his way to safety.

By now, the noise had to be attracting attention. Late shifts were a fact of life for the police force. Someone had to be there. Someone would come. Jim backed away as the knifeman advanced, leering crazily, his tongue lolling from his mouth.

"You're remarkably resilient," Zsasz smirked. "For an old man."

"Less of the old," Gordon growled, backing up against the desk. "There's life in these old bones yet."

"Yes," Zsasz hissed. "Let's see if we can't do something about that."

Gordon's eyes grew wide as the knife gleamed in his face. He groped blindly behind his back, desperate for something to use, when his right hand came upon the coffee cup Miss Mayhew had brought him. He almost smiled.

With a single movement, Gordon lifted the cup and threw into in the serial killer's face. Zsasz screamed as the hot liquid scalded his cheeks and eyes, and he hurtled forward like a wild animal, slashing blindly. Gordon pressed the advantage. He dodged the reckless swipes and brought the mug down as hard as he could on the back of Victor's head.

Shards showered down on the blue carpet, and blood fell with them as Zsasz staggered forward, clutching his skull in agony. This time, Gordon was merciless. He couldn't risk the madman regaining his bearing and continuing the onslaught.

He grabbed the bald man's head and slammed him down into the desk. Then, grabbing hold of the letter opener, he stabbed at the killer, first at his knife hand, then his upper arm, and finally his leg. As blood gushed to the office floor and the psychopath howled in pain, Gordon pulled him up and punched him hard in the face before throwing him to the ground.

Just as he straddled the man to throw on the handcuffs, Bullock and several other police detectives kicked open the door, weapons drawn.

"You alright, Commish?" Bullock said.

"Just fine," Jim replied gruffly. "Get this dirtbag out of my office."

As the detectives did as directed, Jim loped back to his chair. He picked it up and pushed it back to its rightful place by the desk. He could feel Bullock's eyes on the back of his head. The larger man wanted to know what happened, but he'd wait for Gordon. He was a good man.

Jim sighed. He knew Bullock wasn't always on the up-and-up. Yet, now, here he was calling him good. Had the lines really blurred so much? Or were his standards slipping? Maybe Zsasz was an Agent of Karma. Maybe this was a wake-up call.

"I'll brief you tomorrow, Harv," he said, gathering his coat and turning to leave. "Right now, I'm going to go home and make love to my wife."


End file.
